


Wolves, Crows, and Wingless Dragonflies

by deadlydazzling



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Family, Fix-It, Hurt/Comfort, Love, Post-Series, Sacrificial Jon, except I actually explain some stuff, they both just deserve some happiness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-20
Updated: 2019-07-02
Packaged: 2020-03-08 17:52:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18899656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadlydazzling/pseuds/deadlydazzling
Summary: It is the first thing she does after her coronation.Sansa sends a letter pardoning Jon Snow, and they begin to heal together.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I needed to write this the moment the episode ended, and I hope you all enjoy. This is just a prologue and later chapters will be longer.

It is the first thing she does after her coronation.

There are more important things to oversee, she knows. The reconstruction of Winterfell. The construction of new glass gardens. Lords to please. Ladies to council. Peasants to listen to. Eyes to let bore into her. But while those things directly affect the realm, her realm, she fears the indirect consequences of not seeing this through as soon as possible.

Her sleeves make the task more difficult than need be. The ink nearly spills as she grabs for the entwined dire wolf seal, and every time she shifts she makes sure she hasn’t accidentally sat upon them. It is the most beautiful dress she has worn since leaving Kingslanding. A love letter to her younger self. The rest of her, the lover of jet blacks and armored epaulets, hopes that her dress will catch once more on the ink bottle, foregoing this damnable task and allowing her to return to more pressing matters. She can hear Littlefinger whispering in her ear about the dangers of inviting him back into their home. She can see Cersei’s judging glance. She can feel herself agreeing with them. She fears what she will become if this letter is not sent if her younger self dies forever.

Sealed and stamped. She takes it to the rookery herself. She ties it to a raven herself. She does not leave until it is engulfed by the horizon, white clouds pillowing the bird out of view.

Sansa fears that he will not come.

 

*

 

_ Jon, _

_ Please. _

 

The letter, if it can even be called that, is attached behind a sheaf of parchment declaring him pardoned by the Queen in the North.

Jon sits back in the chair beside his desk. The fire crackles and he shifts away from it, leaning on his right side where his thumb absentmindedly runs over the armrest. Fires are required in the North, and Jon welcomes the warmth after the moons turn beyond the wall resettling wildlings, but he does not like remembering it is there.

Brown has started to peak out from behind the black of the armrest, and Jon moves to grab the letter off his desk so his hands have something else to do.

He traces the curve of her script instead.

Part of him had been hoping for something longer. Perhaps, the addition of a detailed recount of all that had transpired since he boarded that ship in King’s Landing, or a maybe just a few extra pleasantries added in. He does not think he would have agreed if it had read anything else other than the two lines now etched onto the back of his eyelids.  

“Sansa.”

  
  



	2. Lately We've Been Living in Different Nations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's absolutely crazy how much love this story has received in less than 12 hours. Thank you all so much. I just wanted to mention that there is very little dialogue in this chapter, and that's because I felt it was necessary to make a smooth transition from where the show left off to where the characters will be for most of this story. That means building up from them not speaking their thoughts at all. Anyway, the show broke my heart and I hope that this story gives Jon and Sansa the ending they deserve.  
> The chapter title is from "More" by 5 Seconds of Summer.

Sansa does not believe he is coming.

In reality, she does not let herself believe otherwise. Her bannerman had agreed to stay in Winterfell for a moon’s turn so that they could smooth out the details of her reign. She hopes it does not take that long, for their sake. The Citadel may have sent a raven predicting a mild winter but this is still the North. A mild winter in Dorne foretells brisk winds, maybe a couple of frosts, but a weather still warm enough to grow the necessary crops. This is the North, though, and any winter means a near total halt of food production, save the most hearty vegetables and the crops produced in glass gardens. However, glass gardens won’t be able to feed her people, and a diet of lettuce does not yield an able-body. 

No, she hopes to have this all wrapped up before the next storm so her bannermen can return home. There is simply too much to do in that time: council members to appoint, delegations to the Six Kingdoms and Essos to create, squabbles from both the rich and the poor to listen to. Her nights have become sleepless, but really, she prefers it so. Adding thoughts about one of her old ghosts returning to Winterfell would simply throw off the rhythm she has going for herself.

It would also distract her in moments such as this.

Alys Karstark walks at her side with a basket of gloves in her hands. Sansa’s own hands ache from a mixture of holding a quill for the whole duration of the morning and from a need to pick up her sewing needle. She hasn’t sewed since she left for King’s Landing. They are heading to the orphanage to give the children much-needed protection from the northern winds; protection that the other ladies at Winterfell had made. Sansa feels like an imposter for handing out gloves she hadn’t helped knit, but she is the Queen of the North, not just the Queen of her Office, and it does her people good to see her person regularly.

They walk in silence, guards at their sides, and when they arrive the overall silence is broken by the mandatory noise that comes with a building full to the brim with children, while the silence between herself and Alys remains intact.

War-torn, that’s what her country is, and this fact is never so clear as it is within these four walls.

Some of the children, mostly the girls, stop what they are doing to watch the queen and one of her lady’s, while the rest continue playing. Cots cover every inch of the floor that is not used as a walkway; most of the children are wearing clothes with holes in them, and all of them appear unbathed. Her heart constricts but her eyes remain kind and her smile remains genuine as the boldest begin to approach her. 

This is why the North needed its independence, she thinks as she starts up a conversation with a boy no older than eight with a stick at his hip where a sword would rest. Bran was a Northerner, yes, but when a ruler lived in King’s Landing it was easy to forget the people living on the frontier. Thoughts might go out to the poor bastards who dealt with the worst of the winter storms, but those thoughts were never followed with actions. The North would be expected to give up the bulk of their wool, and they would receive the same amount of cotton in return as a kingdom with a similar population without taking into account the difference in climate. She would not let herself forget any of her people, from the mountain clans to the bogs she would ensure every man, woman, and child was looked after.

A pretty picture, part of her sneered. An impossibly pretty picture so much like the ones she used to adore.

Hours pass, and Alys and her stay to help feed the children. She is about the grab a bowl for herself so she may sit with the caretakers and discuss their needs when she is told of his arrival.

The bowl almost slips from her hands, and it is only the years of training she has received in schooling her initial reactions that keep every drop of stew from touching the stones. Sansa bows her head in acknowledgment, giving herself a moment to deliberate on whether she should finish up here as duty would recommend, or rush to greet him as her heart desires. When she lifts her gaze she is met with the brown eyes of Alys Karstark who gives her a small smile, gesturing for her to go. 

And just like that, her mind is made. She whispers to Alys to tell the caregivers that she would be willing to house and pay any child old enough to work at Winterfell, gives the children who turn to her as she leaves one last goodbye, and then goes to meet Jon, her own small smile on her lips.

 

*

 

Jon holds her letter in his hand as he stands in the bailey of his home. A home drenched in the blood of his incompetence. Her two words written to him the only thing keeping him from running from the ghosts of his own creation.

He knows when she is behind him. Ever since he laid eyes on her at Castle Black he has been attuned to her presence, as though she might slip away if he deigned to ignore her. The want, no, the need, to look at her seizes him, but the memory of their last farewell, their only farewell, takes hold just as fast. They had avoided ever really saying goodbye before that day in King’s Landing. When he had ridden to Dragonstone, a wave was all he could bear for fear that a farewell would be for forever, and when he rode South to join Dany’s forces he had swallowed his goodbye because it didn’t feel right to say he would promise to come back to her when he knew Dany would not allow it. King’s Landing had been final. It was a closure that opened just as many wounds as it healed. It healed some, nonetheless.

He had thought that had been the end. The end of this internal war between Stark and Targaryen, now he was simply a Snow. The end of dealing with politics where you think you’re making one transaction while actually making another, now all he had to deal with were the Freefolk and his brothers, two groups that prided themselves in speaking their mind. The end of his time with Sansa. 

Now he is before her and he must pause before he can face it all again.

And there she stands before him. Sansa. His eyes rake over her, drinking her in because he never thought he would do so again. She wears a dress not unlike what her lady mother would wear save its color being Stark grey and not Tully green. The dangling sleeves and the double-layered skirt with the slit down the middle of the first skirt remind him of a young girl he hasn’t seen in ages, but the metal bodice is that of the woman he last saw. Neither is what he imagined when he closed his eyes and pictured her at the wall. There he imagined the woman who had won back Winterfell at his side, but no matter what form she takes now, she still radiates.

Where his imaginings of her were like ale, strong and able easily to satiate, seeing her in the flesh was like tasting Arbor Gold, sweet to the point where inebriation was easily fallen into. 

He raised his eyes to her face just in time to watch her faint smile flicker out. Fear clenched at his gut, and he stood his ground. If he moved he was not sure if it would be towards her or out of the castle. 

The first time they had reunited they had both changed. Now, he wasn’t sure if the queen who stood before him was the same girl he had relearned after moons of working together. Would she rush into his arms? Would she even want to touch him?

He wanted to feel her embrace but he understood why it would not come. If she had called him to be by her side simply as a reminder of her past, then he would stay forever in the shadows. If he was here so she could bestow upon him her own punishment, then so be it, he would not leave. Better his punishment is from her hand than at the hands of an Unsullied. Jon wasn’t sure he deserved to be punished for killing Daenerys, however, his crimes against his family were another matter entirely. 

After long enough where Jon had resigned himself that a shared look would be his greeting back to Winterfell, she moved towards him quick as a crow flies. When they were inches apart she paused, her hands mirroring his as he gripped her letter and she gripped the air, before her arms snaked themselves around his neck.

His body was aware of everywhere they touched as his own hands wrapped around her waist: she did not snuggle into his neck as she once used to, but she still rested it in the crook of his shoulder, her skirts grazed his legs as he moved closer, and her hands rested in his hair, carding through his unbound curls.

He had just closed his eyes to the warmth of her embrace as he felt her head turn. He was afraid she would break away, and he instinctively tightened his hold on her. Instead, she whispered into his ear, “Thank you.”

 

*

 

They supped as she worked. 

Jon didn’t mind, he had gotten used to silence at dinner, everyone too famished to speak. It also allowed him to look upon her while she was distracted. They sat across from each other; he had already memorized the peaks and valleys of her face, the slope of her neck, but he revisited it all as they sat there. There was a time when he would have never indulged such needs, perhaps those times would return tomorrow, but he could not stop himself if he tried today.

She didn’t eat. He didn’t think she noticed that either, but her bowl remained untouched at her side as she read over countless scrolls on the state of the granaries. Her mind was perhaps suited to the duties of Queenship, good at dealing with the weight of millions of lives on her shoulder, but he wasn’t sure how long that would last if she neglected the needs of her body.

She wouldn’t have to be working so tirelessly if it weren’t for his stupidity.

“Forgive me.”

The words had tumbled out of his mouth without his consent, and her perplexed look as she forced herself to tear her gaze from the parchment made him want to swallow the words whole so they could return to a companionable silence.

“There’s nothing to forgive.”

“You can’t honestly believe that.”

She sighed while looking at her nails before replying, “I forgive you.”

Jon looked away from her, eyes flitting to the fire before resting on the window looking out over the yard. He felt craven, having to close his eyes, count to three, and dislodge the lump in his throat before he could look back at her. 

“Sansa, please don’t.”  

The faint light from the candle by her side illuminated the unshed tears in her eyes, like the ocean kissed by the sun. “What did you want me to say then? I don’t forgive you, and I start a fight. I forgive you, and you’re not pleased. Neither is the truth.”

He couldn’t look at her as she tried to will the tears away, painfully aware that his eyes were filling with their own. His gaze went towards her hand, and she must have realized for she flipped it over, revealing her palm and allowing him to slip his hand within hers.

What finally broke him was the warm slide of her thumb along the back of his hand.

Tears, unbidden, traced their way down his cheeks, and Sansa’s fingers from her other hand stopped them in their tracks before they could fall off his face.

“Jon.”

It was a whisper so soft. He did not deserve any of it. Not her soft words, or her soft touch, or her soft gaze. 

“Just… Eat your soup.”

And she did. Her touch was replaced by the scrape of her spoon against the bowl. The loss of it felt both necessary and as though he had chased off the crow he had met in the bailey when she rushed to hug him. He almost missed the stop in the scraping and her movements as she got out of her chair and walked towards him; it was only when he felt her hands on his shoulder, bidding him to stand, that he registered it all.

And Sansa hugged him.

And Jon vowed that this would be their last supper together after so long apart.

 


	3. Stitches in the Fabric

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to thank you all for commenting. There is no greater motivating force, and I adore seeing all your thoughts on this story.

Sansa expects Jon to stay by her side after they break their fast in the great hall, and when he excuses himself from the table with a slight bow in her direction she tells herself it is to do some small task or another. So, to ensure she won’t be moving around when he comes to find her, Sansa opens up her throne room to hear the grievances of her people.

As the morning drags on, and Jon does not show, she feels herself slipping. She had barely slept the night before as she juggled with the details of a trade route with Braavos and the knowledge that Jon was just down the hall instead of leagues away. When she woke, it had been to a severe headache that turned her stomach. The smile Jon had bestowed upon her that morning had alleviated the effects of the sleepless night, and she found her motivation refueled by the small show of affection.

Now, as she listens to a baker asking for a mason so he can repair his oven, she feels bone tired. She can’t help but feel ashamed of her weakness; she should not have to rely on someone to maintain her mood. Lately, her companions had been as fleeting as words. Littlefinger’s council starts rushing through her mind: once you have identified your weakness, squash it; if you can see it, others can too.

Sansa promises the baker a mason for the next two days and rises from her seat to the man thanking her and promising her one of his famous sticky buns.

Sansa heads to her parents’ chamber, her chamber, and once she has reached the door she whirls on her heels to face her guard.

“Meera?”

Meera had come to her coronation to pledge House Reed’s fealty in place of her ailing father, but Meera pledging her sword to Sansa after the feast had come as a surprise. She had questioned the girl on why she did not pledge herself to the king to the south, and her answer about the weather in the capital clashing with her temperament had not been convincing. Sansa didn’t mind, though, she was in desperate need of guards. Brienne’s decision to stay in King’s Landing had been a blow. An understandable blow, but a blow nonetheless. It was only natural that Podrick had stayed with her. And with a flourish, Bran had banished one of her only companions and kept another two.

Meera was also someone Sansa could talk to, and for that, Sansa was selfishly grateful that her little brother had somehow alienated his traveling companion.

“Yes, your Grace?”

She wanted to tell Meera to call her Sansa, but she bit her tongue. Sansa might classify their small interactions as friendly, but her bar for friendship had lowered over the years, and she attributed Meera’s kindness in their interactions to Sansa’s position, “Find Jon for me and bring him here, please.” 

With the exchange of a bow and a thank you Meera was off, and Sansa entered her rooms. Humiliation burned her cheeks. The fact that she had to summon him hurt. The fact that she wanted to summon him angered her. She had been alone for so long, the loneliness grating at her core until calluses grew around the hurts. After a day he had peeled away all those layers of skin and left her pink and raw.

She had thought he had felt the same last night. He had cried in her arms, a show of vulnerability she had not seen since he had left for Dragonstone, not just from him, but from anyone. War had shaped Westeros into a land where everyone wore armor. Some wore it with pride, others had chinks near extremities, but it had been so long since she had seen someone other than a child remove their protective layers before her. She had thought that after seeing him like that, as no man had ever let her witness, that maybe they could grow back their skin back together.

Realization dawned upon her. He was ashamed. Ashamed of letting her see him crying. Ashamed of allowing her to hold him like a babe. Ashamed of requiring her touch to soothe his aches just as she was ashamed of how she needed his presence that morning. He was still a man, after all, no matter their relation, and she was a woman.

With most of her worries smoothed, and her nerves eased, Sansa picked up her knitting needles.

Jon did not knock, nor did she expect him to, they used to flicker in and out of each other’s rooms without a care, barging into argue about the decisions of the other or to simply be in the presence of another soul as they worked.

The silence was not new either, though this one unnerved her. She was seated by the fire and had not looked up from her knitting, but she could sense that he hovered at the door as though she was an angry wolf that would bite at him if he approached. 

Part of her wanted to punish him for avoiding her, for standing so far away when she wanted him beside her. She wanted to keep on knitting, let his fears fester inside him before she broke the tension like a twig. But silence was what had ruined them. Their inability, or simply their cowardice, to speak of what was transpiring between them had resulted in his exile, and she knew that if they were to mend the tear between them, speaking to each other would have to be the first stitch. 

Laying the beginnings of a scarf on her knees, she looked up into his eyes, “You needn’t be ashamed.”

Her voice was barely above a whisper, for she wasn’t sure if it was the right way to begin, but he must have heard for he looked away from her, towards the window over her shoulder, and moved to sit at the seat furthest from her own. Far enough away that the fire barely touched his features. She glanced outside herself to see the soft flutter of snowfall, before turning back to him. Sansa wondered if he longed to leave her again, if familial duty had been all that brought him back to her, and the thought made the muscles in her legs clench. She wanted to spring forward to grab at him, to keep him close, but she was afraid he would perceive her embrace as claws digging into his skin, forcefully keeping him there, so she stayed seated. 

“Men may consider tears a weakness. Women may consider them a falsehood, a weapon. I think that with the right company, they can liberate us. So please, don’t be ashamed.”

He still did not look at her as he nodded his head in understanding, but while she was speaking Sansa noticed the minute movement of his body shifting closer to hers, his forearms resting on his legs as he leaned forward.

She knew not to push, not wanting him to lean away and erase what small amount of progress they had made. Picking up the scarf, she made small loops in the fabric to ensure it would not unfold. She did not want him to know how much his absence had affected her that morning,  _ squash your weaknesses _ , but curiosity got the best of her, “Where were you this morning?”

“The crypts,” The raspiness of his voice filled the room, and she wondered if he had not spoken a word since the night before, “I also visited the training yard. Helped out with some of the younger ones. You have not appointed a Master at Arms?”

“I have yet to appoint any of my councilmen. I believe Sam’s words did have some wisdom to them. A single figurehead is what caused all the wars in the first place; if I were to simply choose advisors who think like me, I would be no better.”

“You’re wise. I know you will choose advisors who aren’t afraid to oppose you.”

Placing her knitting on the table beside her, Sansa got up from her seat, stretching slightly, and moved to the carafe of water at the other end of the room. While pouring, she continued, “That might be, but we’re in a precarious situation. Whatever we decide to do will create a precedent for the generations that follow. I might be able to choose the counsel of those who disagree with me, but that might not be the case for my successors. We need to be careful before we make any sort of decision.”

She gulped down the water, suddenly parched, as Jon made to get up and join her. She gestured at the pitcher with her goblet, and he nodded. She poured him a cup while he thought on her words.

“We?” He said while accepting his own goblet.

“Be my hand.”

Jon pretended to choke on a false chuckle, “Didn’t you just warn against hasty decisions?”

To be honest, she hadn’t even noticed she had started speaking in the plural. The offer felt right though, and even just the thought of him at her side at all her meetings gave her strength. Strength enough to stand her ground. “It makes sense. The lords will elect councilmen, and the ruler appoints a hand. That ensures that the hand has the ear of their queen or king, but the lords also get an indirect say in matters.”

“Is that why you summoned me back?” Jon sighed as he turned back to his seat.

Sansa followed, not meaning to give up, “Father always said there should always be a Stark at Winterfell. A nice saying, but it always clashed with the idea that the lone wolf dies. A Stark alone at Winterfell is a lonely thing.”  

It was true, so very very true. Despite the past moon being filled with celebrations–Northern independence, her coronation, the announcement of a mild winter–Sansa had felt hallowed out through it all. Bran was not there to ominously mention the darkness that came even in a mild winter. Arya was not by her side calling her stupid as everyone else called her Queen. Jon was not there to revel in the nation they had freed together. No father, no mother, no Robb, no Rickon, or Lady, or Theon, or Brienne, Podrick, Old Nan, hell, even Hodor was gone. 

But Jon had come back. The others were dead or had left her, but Jon had come back, and as he collapsed onto the divan, Sansa knelt before him, trying to make him see how much she needed him against the hiss in her mind telling her not to, against Jon’s frown.

“I’m not a Stark.”

“I can make you one.”

Jon’s lips opened in an o, brows knitted together in confusion before they smoothed out and his mouth became a thin line, engulfing the plumpness of his lower lip. “Aye, but that would not erase the fire and blood tattooed to my wrists.” 

Sansa looked away from his face, so sure that he was touching upon her indiscretions about his parentage. She did not regret telling Tyrion, she could not. There was no way she could sit around idle as a member of her family was forced into subservience. Not after having been in that position herself. She did, however, regret that she had broken his trust and that it seemed that her meddling had done very little to break the hold the dead queen had had over him.

“Snow, Stark, Targaryen. You’re still Jon.” She wanted to reach for his hand, to chase the vacant look in his eyes away and coax the warmth he had so easily bestowed upon her before going south back into them. She could not, though. Her hand clenched at the air instead. “Jon. The sullen boy who sat in the corner during meals but would never even think of refusing his younger siblings when they asked him to play. Jon. The man who would have beat Ramsay to death even though he could cause me no more harm. Jon. The king the North chose after you had scattered their ghosts and promised to slay their monsters.”

He had closed his eyes to her, cutting off any sign that what she was saying had an effect on him. She rushed to continue, both afraid that he would not listen and that she would not be able to get it out if she did not speak soon, “When I asked for Northern independence I was not asking for the crown. I thought you were part of the deal. I didn’t know… I thought we could…”  _ I need you _ . 

It was Sansa’s turn now to close her eyes. Her time had run out. The words would not form on her tongue.  _ Idiot. Idiot. Idiot. _

“Your bannermen won’t like it.”

Blue met brown, and for a second the voices in her head quieted as she gazed into his eyes. It took her a moment to remember what had led them to this point in their conversation.

“They came south for you. They would have stormed Kings Landing for you.”

“Aye, because you asked it of them.”

“And now I am asking them to accept you as my hand.”   

Jon’s eyes crinkled, a laugh escaping his lips. A real laugh. One round and gruff which lit his whole face and left her blind.

 

*

 

The room is split into two camps. Those who accept his appointment as Sansa’s Hand, and those who do not. 

Acceptance of the news ranges from those who think that their old king was the only viable candidate for the position now that he had returned, to those who think their queen could have chosen worse, while the opposing side is more unified in their hatred of the man who sold their kingdom for a good fuck. Jon can’t say he blames them, though they are wrong in their assessment on why he bent the knee.

Ironically, it is Jon, not Sansa, who is situated nearest to the men who disagree with even his presence in the Great Hall. 

“Pardon me, Your Grace,” Lord Flint begins with a shallow bow of his head, “but I’d rather my balls freeze off in the coldest winter in centuries than see Jon Snow in any position of power.”

“Won’t be too hard to arrange that, living on the Bite,” chuckles another.

“And I’d rather fuck the Knight King himself before I live in a world where you get a say in who’s Hand, Lord Flint. Seeing as Snow helped kill the bastard, I would say he’s saved me from losing my cock, and you from losing your balls,” A man with freckles littering his nose barks out while rising to his feet. Jon thinks he might be Lord Forrester’s youngest due to his complexion, but Jon had never known Forrester to ever below out profanity as assuredly. 

The whole room is spouting profanity. Everyone either shouting at someone from across the room or supporting a comrade in that regard. He can only make out what those closest to the dais are yelling, mostly because they seem to be the most passionate about the affairs of Jon Snow. Jon looks to Sansa whose eyes flicker about the room. Her hair is down, the crown atop her head replacing all her old braids and knots. She looks radiant; the Queen of the Chaos. 

Their queen stands and the clamor decrescendos until all that can be heard is the scrape of benches as some amongst them sit back to listen.

She clasps her hand before her, appearing to be gathering her words while in reality, she is simply taking her time. She looks over them. Looks to her right and nods at one of her guards, a girl with dark brown waves. Looks to her left where her eyes meet with Jon’s before they return back to the center of the room, and still, they all remain silent, and Jon knows that no matter how much they may despise him if Sansa declares him Hand of the Queen, they will listen.

“My Lords, Ladies, I have stood before you and defended my cousin many a time. I could speak in great detail of how he retook Winterfell, or how he warned us all of the ice threat to the north, or how he saved us from the promise of fire to the south because all of these acts are permanently seared into my mind as a reminder of how I should rule. I could sing Jon Snow’s praise as I did before, gladly, and wholeheartedly, but I will not.”

A murmur rises up in the room. Questions on where this is leading spring up in the words and faces of all those present, and Jon steals himself for the only outcome he can foresee.

“I will not because words will not ease most of your worries, only actions will. I ask that you give Jon Snow a chance to prove himself through his actions. I ask that you wait to judge him until he has received that chance. I ask that you trust me that I will replace him if he proves unfit, however unlikely I believe that to be.”

The room remains silent as they all look at the woman before them, the woman they chose for this very reason. In the wake of dragons and the living dead, Westeros was populated with heroes, but few mothers remained after the carnage to assuage fears and whisper promises of a coming dawn.

Jon could not comprehend how she was willing to turn the crooked monsters that were his past actions, into a beautiful song of future salvage. How she sang it to her people like a lullaby.  

He did not think anyone would ever speak again, did not see how someone could deny their trust in the Queen, but Lord Flint did rise to the occasion.

“I will not say that I do not have faith in you,” he begins slowly, “nor have I forgotten Jon Snow’s impact on the course of the Great Wars, but–”

“My father used to say that everything before the word ‘but’ was horseshit.”

The hall broke out in the deep laughter that can only be attributed to northern folk. A hint of a smirk danced on Sansa’s face, and a strange feeling rested in Jon’s belly as he saw it appear alongside the glitter of amusement in her eyes.

“However,” The Lord continued, his own smirk on his lips, “it is possible that your fondness of Snow, you being cousins and all, can or could dampen your judgment on his fitness for the position.”

“It has not.” The amusement had left her eyes, replaced by steel. Jon did not believe anyone else noticed, though, because she was quick to school her features into neutrality and then grant him a kind smile. “And it will not because my other councilmen will also have my ear on the matter.”

“And who, might I ask are those lucky men?”

“That’s for you to decide.”

And just like that, chaos was restored, but this one intentionally brewed. It distracted them all from the matter of Jon Snow. Neighbor turned to neighbor discussing why that one or this one deserved so and so position, and Jon was granted the freedom of stealing glances at Sansa without her lords and ladies noticing.


	4. Winter Blooms

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are a few phrases directly lifted from Storm of Swords, by George RR Martin. I do not claim them as my own. Fellow book readers will recognize the scene in which they are featured, truly one of the most beautiful scenes in the series. Hopefully, I do it some justice. If you want to reach me, I go by the same name on Tumblr.

Jon walked down the partially lit corridors of Winterfell, a scroll in his hand. The winter sun barely managing to shine through the layers of clouds overhead, and the somber atmosphere melded strangely with the echo of his boots against the stones, so much so that Jon made it a conscious effort to lighten his steps.

He was just about to turn a corner when another set of footsteps adds their accompaniment to the strange song. Then came Maester Wolkan, a box of jars in his arms each labeled with a tag at the neck. Though, what the tags read, Jon could not say.

“Morning, my lord,” Wolkan said, a smile ruffling his mustache. Jon wondered if the brown tint of his facial hair had fully faded or if perhaps it was just the light that made it appear so. Wolkan glanced at the scroll in Jon’s hand and nodded at it, “Headed to the rookery?”

Jon nodded before thinking it wise to add “Yes, the Queen is looking to open up a trading route with the wildling tribes.”

“Ah, well I was going to the glass gardens to fill my stores. Perhaps you would like to join? Of course, if the Queen wants the letter sent out immediately then I would happily be of service.”

Jon wanted to say that he could send it alone, but instead, he found himself following the maester out into the cold morning air.

 

*

 

“Don’t we usually dig these up before they invade the soil?” Jon asked while holding up a yellow flower, “What could they be used for?”

“Their leaves make the most effective poultice, and the petals, when boiled, can soothe stomach pains.”

Jon was on his knees, collecting all the herbs and flowers Wolkan described and placing them in their appropriate container. He had removed his gloves, despite the dirt and the thorns, and he itched to remove his furs as well but kept them on despite the warmth of the gardens. It had been so long since Jon had broken the monotony of eating, sleeping, fighting, with a task not linked to his duties. Duties as Lord Commander, duties as King in the North, duties as Warden in the North, and duties as Lord Commander yet again. It did him good to feel dirt beneath his nails and not have it be from the grit of battle.

His hands worked, pulling or cutting–depending on the plant–until a petal, blue as the hot springs on a summer’s day, brushed the back of his hand. 

“And Winter Roses? What properties do they have?”

Maester Wolkan worked on as he responded, not noticing Jon’s lapse, “The old and the young alike put the petals on their gums to help with aches. It also can help with fighting the common winter sickness. I wouldn’t pick them all, though, they can fetch a high price in the south.”

He traced the smoothness of the petals with his fingers. When Jon had first learned of his parentage he had searched the Winterfell annals for any mention of Lyanna Stark, as well as racked his brain for any memories where his father, no, Ned Stark, mentioned her. Sansa would have probably known that it was Winter Roses that Rhaegar Targaryen had bestowed on his mother at the tourney at Harrenhal, but when Jon discovered the detail in a long forgotten tome, it had unlocked one of the only memories in which Ned Stark had spoken of the Tower of Joy.

Bran had begged his father for the story of how he slew the Sword of the Morning, Sir Arthur Dayne. Bran had been obsessed with becoming a knight, and at that age, to him, it was just a story of a protective brother saving his sister from an evil king, not of a tragedy. 

But Eddard Stark complied one night to his youngest son’s appeals, and when his children visited him before they were sent to bed, he sat before the fire and spoke. He spoke of arriving at the tower, of how his companions fell, names Jon now cannot remember, of how Dayne fought, and how he died. Their father’s tone had changed as he went through the events. His voice softened as the words flew out of his mouth of their own volition. His hand gestures stopped as he spoke of climbing the steps of the tower, and his eyes glazed over as if he was no longer with them, but somewhere leagues and years away.

He spoke of finding his beloved sister in a pool of blood with wilted Winter Roses clenched in her hands.

Then he stopped and sent his children to bed. It would be fortnights before he would tell them another story.

There was another thing that stuck out from this memory. The ending of their father’s story had shaken them all, but it was nothing a night of rest did not wipe from their memories. Not Sansa. No, Sansa had cried when Ned spoke of finding Lyanna on the edge of death. She had hugged her father as if her skinny little arms that couldn’t even wrap around his midsection would protect him from the ghosts of his past, and she had also insisted on sleeping in his chambers with him that night. Not out of fear, but simply out of a want to comfort him. For the following days, where she was usually her lady mother’s shadow, she became his. Following him to pray, sewing while he worked, and skipping all of her lessons under the guise of wanting to learn the duties her future husband would fill.

If only she knew that it was she, not her lord husband, who filled those duties. If only Jon had known the truth then.

Wolkan rose to his feet, dusting the dirt from his robes, declaring their task done. As he made to arrange all of the now filled jars into the box, Jon cut himself a Winter Rose and hid it from sight.

 

*

 

They are back in Wintertown, Sansa and a few of her ladies, this time under the pretense of wanting to inspect the goods the market has to offer. It’s nothing they couldn’t get back at Winterfell, but villagers who would never dare come to Sansa when she opens the doors of the Great Hall come to her now on their own grounds. As she examines dyed wool, the merchant tells her of a sickness going around the sheep on the Iron Islands and how he hopes to make enough money to be able to afford passage there to sell his wares. Another, this time a spinach farmer, speaks of the constant flooding on the roads north of the Neck. Sansa tucks away these nuggets of information for later use.

It also allows her to learn of what is happening within the walls of her own home. They are stopped by a stall selling apples when her ladies begin to chatter amongst themselves.

“So, Alys, I’ve noticed you looking extra chipper of late.” Tisa remarks with a giggle.

Sansa sees a quick movement out of the corner of her eye and hears the sound of hushing. She suspects it was Alys elbowing the other girl playfully, only leaving Sansa confused as to the girls secretism. She grabs an apple in the hopes that the other girls will believe she hasn’t been paying attention.

“Sweet as ever, your Grace. Unlike other fruits, the cold only betters the taste of apples.” The old lady selling the fruit says, “Go ahead, your Grace. On the house.” 

“I couldn’t possibly.”

The old lady laughs, the wrinkles by her eyes becoming accentuated. She leans in conspiratorially, “Don’t worry dear, you simply biting into one of my apples will bring others running to try a bite of what their Queen is having.” 

Sansa laughs as well, takes a bite of the apple in her hand, and makes sure to hum in content for those around her, while also slipping the woman a silver stag. 

She turns around to see the other girls giggling, but it is not long before Tisa makes to include their Queen in some of the fun. “Have you ever been in love, your Grace?” She makes sure to accentuate the word “love,” tilting her head towards Alys with a smirk on her lips. Alys only glares at the other girl.     

Sansa ignores Tisa’s insinuation, if only for Alys’ sake. She takes another bite from the apple, juice dripping onto her hand, before shaking her head.

That stops the giggling. They look shocked, and Sansa can’t be sure if it’s because of her answer or the fact that she answered at all. A pang goes through her at how distant she has been of late. She can hardly remember the last time she contributed to the gossip instead of just listening to it.

Cersei creeps into her mind like a cat, telling her that only children gossip, while women use that gossip to carve out a piece of the world for themselves. Sansa does her best to chase her off with a broom. She wants to be  _ loved _ , and superiority is not the path that will lead her there. 

“Never?” She lets the word hang in the air, “But hasn’t your Grace been south? I hear the men down south could put the dower men of the North to shame.” This comes from Amice, a girl that matches the Northern look to a T, making her comment all the more funny in Sansa’s eyes.

“No, I don’t think I’ve ever been in love,” she had thought so before, though. Joffrey, Loras, knights too many to count. She had been naive to think she had ever known what her parents shared. But, now was the time to tap into that naive girl. “Besides, there’s something to be said for the appeal of dower Northern men.”

This reintroduces the tinkle of laughter. No doubt most of the girls are thinking of their own Northern men. She wonders how many are likely to pan out. If these girls are like her younger self and dream of catching the attention of a knight, if they are thinking of a serving boy beneath their status, or perhaps they were lucky enough to fall for a man who their fathers and brothers would approve of. She wishes their happiness to last, though she knows the fickle qualities of the emotion. 

Her eyes land on Alys, and she is not smiling, and Sansa realizes their similarities do not stop at their appearances. No family to arrange a marriage for them, but still a whole host of people who would benefit from them marrying the  _ right _ man. Perhaps she too has lost the hope that anyone would love her for herself, but Tisa’s earlier comment rings in Sansa’s mind.

“What do you think it feels like,” Alys asks, her eyes trained on the ground, “to be in love?”

Sansa is stunned for a moment, and she has a sudden urge to reach out to the younger girl. The trepidation in her words betraying a past that itches at Sansa’s own scars.

“My mother used to tell me that love was something you build. Sometimes you’re painfully aware of the weight of each brick you must carry. Other times, you wake up and see a roof overhead and someone just as mysteriously bone tired as yourself lying beside you.”

Alys’ only response is a nod, and Sansa can see her eyes going in upon herself, evaluating. 

“And Jon Snow,” Sansa feels relief that the subject is being changed before Tisa continues with her question, “what does he say love feels like?”

“I don’t know. He never spoke much of Daenerys.” Suddenly afraid her irritation will peak through her mask, Sansa averts her eyes to the apple in her hand. Her index finger presses upon a bruise on the otherwise perfect skin.

Alys, in two steps, is beside her taking her arm in her own and walking with her towards the other stalls. Leaving the other girls to trail behind. 

“I don’t think she was speaking of Daenerys.”

Sansa can tell that her words are meant to be reassuring. Perhaps she means that they referred to Ygritte; not an impossibility with how fond the Wildlings were of the woman who was ‘kissed by fire.’ But Sansa can’t help the strange feeling that pools in her stomach when she connects Tisa’s teasing about love and Jon Snow to Alys’ careful question. 

 

*

 

When the snow began to fall and her nerves started to tingle, that is when Winterfell began to appear beneath her palms. 

The villagers bustled to get their goods inside, the market beginning to close for the day, but Sansa was not ready to return indoors. Instead, she sat in the snow and began to build. Her ladies asked what she was doing, and upon hearing her response they laid beside her and helped with her creation. When children and their mothers came to watch and asked what they were doing, it was her ladies who responded, and more and more hands joined in the effort. 

Pack and smooth. Pack and smooth.

First came the wall, the outer, then the inner. Then the great hall, the Library Tower, the Godswood to its left, and the trees and hot springs that laid within it.

The snow fell but she kept on packing and smoothing. The mothers pulled their children away with talk of fires and hot pudding to warm their blue hands and fill their empty bellies. Soon her ladies were speaking of much the same. As they left, Alys asked if she would be joining them, telling her that the cold would get to her tomorrow. Sansa just shook her head.

Scooping up another glob of snow, she packed it onto the roof of the Broken Tower, smoothed it with her palm, and scraped her fingers over the top to try and replicate the burnt and crumbling bricks. It was then that she realized that the Winterfell she had created was the Winterfell of her childhood, perfect save this one tower. She wondered if she should illustrate its other imperfections.

The cold and wet had crept its way into her gloves. She decided against it.

Pack and smooth. Pack and smooth.

Another pair of hands didn’t join her until she began on the details. She was burying bits of bark in the ground for the gravestones in the lichyard when he sat next to her. Without a word, he began to work. 

Silently, their home began to materialize before their eyes, beneath their hands. It was no longer a nondescript castle, but clearly theirs.  

Pack and smooth. Pack and smooth. 

 

*

 

He found her in the middle of the deserted town square, playing in the snow.

The sight was one to see. He stopped in his tracks, so sure that he had walked into a time long forgotten, where a younger girl with no worries resided. Her hair was a beacon in the world of pure white, the Maiden come to life.  _ I do not belong here _ , he thought.

Yet he walked towards her all the same. He walked as quietly as was permitted, not wanting to disturb the peace more than his presence already would. He dismissed the two guards who stood outside the walls of her castle. They hesitated before leaving, reluctant to leave their Queen, though the cold ushered them on.

She did not seem bothered by the bite of the wind, nor the fall of the snow. A Stark through and through. The Queen of Winter. 

The cold did not bother him either, and he did not dare suggest that they return inside, so he sat beside her, looking at what she had constructed. He looked at the walls, the inner taller than the outer, at the branches that were supposed to be trees in a Godswood, at a crumbling tower. Winterfell. It was so clearly Winterfell that she was creating. And he knew he wanted to help.

Picking up a few of the wood chips she had placed into a pile, he planted them in a straight line. Then he added a chimney onto one end of the Great Hall, where the hearth would stand inside. Then came the accents on the bulwarks.

They sat and formed until his gloves were soaked through, his feet tingled, and the knees of his breaches became stiff. He wondered how cold she must be feeling having sat outside far longer than him. Still, they shaped the snow that fell from above, never speaking a word, not having to. When they had finished, the quiet remained in place as they took in their work.  

They were back at the makeshift Godswood when she finally spoke.

“I wish there was a way to draw the faces on the branches.”

Jon nodded, though she was not looking at him, “I was surprised to learn that you kept the Old Gods. I don’t think any of us took it seriously when we were little; it was like geography lessons or reading hour, required of us. At least, nothing like how your father would have liked.”

Now she turned to look at him. The wind whipped at her loose hair, “Our father.”

They lapsed back into silence, Jon not knowing how to respond. Ned Stark might be his father in everything but blood, but sometimes he thought that the sing of his blood won out of the years under his uncle’s tutelage. Ned Stark was a man driven by honor, while Rhaegar Targaryen had been a man driven by lust, whether it be lust for a woman or lust to fulfill a damned prophecy. Jon had searched for the honorable solution at all of his crossroads, but no matter what he did he could never find it.

“I do not keep the Old Gods,” she said, breaking him out of his reverie. He stared at her with questions in his eyes. He did not remember ever seeing her visit the Sept built for her lady mother, and every day she made a point of visiting the Godswood to pray.

“I am fond of the Gods as I am fond of my old songs. I should hate them both. One propped me up into a girl with her head in the clouds, only to drop me back down to earth when reality came calling. The others never answered my calls. I should hate the Godswood. That’s where the Gods, if they exist, looked down at me and did nothing as I was married to a monster, as Littlefinger shared his dream of wanting me to sit beside him when he took the Iron Throne. I should hate it all, but I do not. I do not because they were the songs my mother would sing to me as she brushed my hair. They were the Gods our father loved so much.”

“What happened to him, Littlefinger?” Jon cursed himself for asking. Cursed himself for getting so wrapped up in a game that he never thought to ask her before.

She turned her head up to the sky, lids now closed, eyelashes brushing her cheeks. They sat on their knees like that, Sansa with her face turned upwards, and Jon looking at her, for a long while. So long that he thought she might never open her eyes again. An ivory statue to go along with their snow castle.

“Arya, Bran, and I gave him a trial. He was guilty, and so Arya slit his throat.” Again, she looked back at him, “The pack survives. No thanks to the Gods.”

Without realizing it, Jon had reached back behind his back and extracted the flower he had secured in the press of his belt. Now he held it out in the afternoon air, between them.

“A Winter Rose?” She questioned, “like from Lyanna’s story?”

Of course, she would remember. She had been the one to comfort their father. The girl who had been enraptured by stories was also the first to recognize that the one their father had told them had been more than just words. Of course, she would not need an old book to remind her of such a small detail.

“Aye, I wish he had told me earlier, but…” He did not know where he was going with that proclamation, but as he looked into her patient gaze he found a new start. “I want you to have it.”

She smiled as he placed it into her palm. Their hands touching for but a moment. A warmth, there and then gone. As she stood up she said, “I have a better idea.”

Moving to the training yard, she places the delicate bloom on the makeshift walkway.

“There, she would have been looking down at you all of those years.”

Jon had never let himself dream of the possibility. Robb had always had the encouraging looks of both of his parents as he worked with a blade or the bow, while Jon tried to feel content with just Lord Stark’s praise. He used to tell himself it was greedy to wish for more. To think that his mother and his true father, the one who had raised him, had both always been watching, it was too much for Jon to stand. 

He looked at the woman who had given him this new perspective. New happiness. The snowflakes touched her face as lightly as lover’s kisses. On her cheeks, her eyelashes, her lips. Feelings Jon had hoped to bury at the wall, feelings which had stirred when he returned to Winterfell, now fully reawoke. He longed to be the snow upon her face.

And just like that, the happiness leached out of him, and he was left feeling more monstrous than the likes of Ramsay and Littlefinger. 


	5. Breathless in the Wind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a rough couple of weeks. I am so sorry for the delay, I didn't have my computer for the last two weeks and I hate writing on my phone. I hope this chapter was worth the wait; it's the longest yet.

Jon made sure to arrive at the chamber where the first privy council would be held before any other members began to arrive. Just as it was Sansa’s duty to arrive last so as to signal the beginning of the meeting, Jon felt it was his duty to be early, if just to assure himself, and everyone else, that he was meant to be there.

Perhaps a bit too early. Dread started to creep into his veins as he waited; this was not a game he had ever thought he would have to start back up. Playing a role to meet an end had become like a second skin to him: pretending to be a wildling, pretending to be in love with a dragon, pretending to be what he was not. Instead of growing with him, adapting to his moves, these second skins had been more akin to snakeskin, something that needed to be regrown. Except, he never was able to shed the layers, and as he grew, they suffocated him, until it all burst. Burst and left death in its wake, the death of his lover and the majority of the knights watch, the death of the people of King’s Landing. He did not know what would happen if he was forced to play yet another role.

_ No, the North is different _ , he thought as he rose, needing to keep himself busy so as not to go mad. Sansa was more at ease playing the role that others needed of her, but he did not think she would allow herself to live a lie. Not in her own home. Their home. He could be simply Jon here; even if being simply Jon also meant being the Hand of the Queen.

To keep his mind away from dark corners, he found himself playing the castle maid so as to brighten up his spirits. He began with arranging his papers, then he straightened the chairs, dusted the windowsill with his hand. He had just been drying the ring of condensation left by the water jug with the sleeve of his tunic when in walked the first lord.

“Ah, Lord Manderly. Master of ships,” Jon greeted the man who was clearly not  _ the _ Lord Manderly, but one of his many sons–second? No, third–while straightening himself up and hiding the dampness that clung to his sleeve behind his back.

Conversing with each arriving lord made to replace his previous ministrations. Slowly, his nerves dulled as each spoke to him in turn. Some amongst them seemed to have never lost faith in their old king, while most others seemed to have warmed to him, most likely because they knew it would do no good to oppose the Queen’s decision on the matter. Unlike the brief taste of Southron politics Jon had received, where lords and ladies danced around their wants by hinting at them, these men came right out with it, speaking of their need of good lumber for ships, workers to speed up the renovations at Last Hearth, supplies to repair a wight-destroyed mill. 

He was just listening to Lord Hornwood–the man that Jon hoped would help with the Manderlys lumber shortage–explain the benefits of using evergreen in the place of pine wood for shields when the door opened once more. Jon couldn’t help but hope it was Sansa as he turned around. He told himself that the hope stemmed from his desire to begin the meeting, and not from any other desires he might harbor. There was still a lord’s seat left to fill, however.

With a slow gait steadied by a walking stick, the young Lord Flint entered the room. His eyes skimmed the room before landing on Jon, hardening into a squint. As he excused himself to Hornwood, he stole himself to go greet the newcomer, Master of reconstruction.

Flint simply nodded and emitted a grunt of assent. His gaze moved from Jon to the last open space.

Jon shifted from foot to foot. He knew he needed to construct a rapport with this man if they were to work together, so he tried again, “Perhaps you would like to sit?”

He cringed internally, knowing immediately he had not said the right thing.

“Aye, I’d like to sit. Can’t stand for too long. Also can’t say those dragons of yours did any good to save my leg or the million or so lives you promised would be spared after you bent the knee.”

Jon sighed, it was becoming difficult to defend his past actions with this new layer of hindsight. “More would have died that night if it had not been for Daenerys forces.”

_ But the Dothraki were lost with little fight in a war that was not theirs. The dragons weren’t there to light the barrier, costing the vanguard dearly. The Night King wasn’t even killed by me, or Dany, or anyone from her army, but Arya who had been north all along. _

“Perhaps, but no Northmen would have had to die in King’s Landing.” 

_ Aye, instead I allowed them to become complicit in an atrocity. I knew she was a dragon, but I thought her fire could be tamed. _ Instead, he said, “You weren’t there,” and even to his ears it sounded weak.

Lord Flint ran a hand through his cropped hair still refusing to look upon Jon, while Jon couldn’t tear his eyes off the other man. “No, I was not. I wasn’t there to see you become a queen and kinslayer in one stroke either. Let us pray to the Gods I never will.” And with that Lord Flint was gone, making his way towards a chair by the fire.

Flint couldn’t possibly believe he would ever harm Sansa. Jon could barely breathe at the thought. He could feel the lives of the men and women of King’s Landing around his neck like a noose, only tightening as he thought of all the people who had died because of him.  _ Ygritte, Missandei, Jaime Lannister, The Hound, Daenerys Targaryen, Daenerys Targaryen, Daenerys Targaryen, Jon Snow. _

Sansa entered with her lady, Alys Karstark, and Jon forced himself to take a breath. The meeting commenced.  __

 

*

 

“A raven came this morning, Your Grace. It seems Lord Gendry Baratheon has been sent by the king to the south, your brother, to discuss important matters,” Maester Wolkan interjected when he saw an opportunity amidst the clamor of arguments.

The room fell into silence when it became obvious that Sansa was about to speak. Jon looked up from where he had been trying to transcribe the different narratives at play so as to go over them at a quieter moment when he heard the mention of his old friend. He wondered why Bran had chosen the inexperienced lord as his ambassador.

“And what matters would those be?” Jon’s gaze shifted from Wolkan to Sansa as she answered. It felt queer to be seated so far from her, each of them at different ends of the table.

“The letter did not say.”

“That’s Bran.” She said it like a joke, like a sister teasing the shortcomings of her younger brother, but her lips didn’t quirk and there was no shine to her eyes. “Well, after his visit I think it would be wise for me to go on a tour of the North. Shall we discuss those plans next meeting?”

Many of the men around the table nodded, shifting in their chairs as they anticipated a dismissal. Jon stilled, ready to speak up and put a damper on their hopes of finally escaping. Someone else beat him to it, though.

“Is that wise, your Grace?” Lord Flint asked.

“What could be wiser than visiting my people?”

“Mayhaps, it would be best to wait for spring before any tour,” Jon proposed.

Sansa’s blue eyes found his, one of the first times during the whole duration of the gathering. “And why is that?”

“Winter storms can make the roads perilous.”

“And,” Lord Flint added while nodding at Jon’s assessment, “The trip would take moons longer in the winter compared to the spring.” Jon felt a wave of gratitude and surprise at the support. All evening, Flint had had a counterclaim for whatever Jon had proposed: more ships should be commissioned for the navy rather than trade, they shouldn’t wait until the spring to redistribute land on the Gift, it’s ‘counsel’ not ‘council.’

Sansa’s gaze jumped from Jon to Lord Flint, and then back again. Jon thought, or hoped, he saw resignation flash across her face before determination fell back into place. “If the people–all of the people, not just those of Wintertown–see their Queen, it solidifies my rule in their eyes. I can’t be an abstract concept to the people I am supposed to be helping.”

Lord Flint had fallen silent, his displeasure clearly visible, but with no arguments to back it up. Jon had danced this dance with Sansa before, though, “Think about the danger. The expenses.”

“If I’m not willing to endure a bit of cold to see my people, then why should they pay fealty to me?” Sansa remained calm, carefully enunciating her every word. Jon couldn’t get his out fast enough.

“If a storm hits and you’re left stranded in some village, what then? What of the rest of your people who you would be cut off from?”

Sansa remained silent for a beat, eyes sparkling as her chin rested on her hands. She moved them to her lap as she responded, “Alright, we will delay the tour until spring.” With that she got up and made her exit, dismissing them all with a nod.

*

 

Jon’s hand clenched the doorknob to Sansa’s study, unsure if he would be welcome after the scene he had caused. He had done just what Jon had reprimanded her for when their roles had been switched; he had challenged her incessantly in front of her councilmen, at her first meeting, nonetheless. He moved to knock instead.

“Come in,” her voice rang through the door, a note of authority tinging her words.

He moved into the room, staying near to the wall. His back pressed against the cool stones, grounding him to the moment. She looked up from the scrolls she had been reading, confusion knitting her brows.

“Jon? You know you need not knock. This is as much your room as mine.” She gestured to the seat before her desk as her attention shifted back to her work. The seat closest to her desk. The fire crackled as Jon strode across the room, choosing the chair furthest from it. He rested his foot against his knee and began to pick at the leather there, waiting for her reprimands.

They did not come. The only sound was the scratch of her quill against the parchment, his nail against the leather, and the shifting of the logs in the fireplace. It was stifling. 

He wished she would just come out and reprimand him; tell him that if he wished to argue with her, then it should be done within the walls of this room, not in front of the whole council. How were they supposed to take her seriously if their former king was seen quarreling with her, and winning, nonetheless? He had let his emotions guide him in the spur of the moment, as he always did around her. He could have held his tongue and waited for them to be alone like this. He kept on picking at the leather until brown flecks started to accumulate beneath his nail.

“I’m sorry. I should not have done that,” he let out on a breath.

She gave him a small smirk, never looking up from he work, “It’s all right.”

“No, I shouldn't have opposed you so violently during the very first meeting.” She was hardly reacting. He needed her to yell at him, to get up on her feet and start pacing around the room, talking about how it made her look, how it made her feel. He placed a hand on the wood of her desk, almost like a plea. 

Her eyes shifted from her papers, and she reached out to twine their fingers, running her thumb over his skin. Unbidden, he did the same. “There’s nothing to forgive. You are my Hand; it is your job to counsel me.”

Her expression pushed him back further into his chair, never letting go of her. Her face had broken out in a huge grin, teeth visible between her lips, and her eyes sparkled with barely held back mischief. In that moment, she was a wolf playing a game. Realization dawned on him. 

“You never intended to manage a tour during winter.”

“No, that part was true,” she lowered her head, smile flickering out, “but you and Edd convinced me earlier than I let on.”

“You wanted Lord Flint and me to present a united front,” he ventured.

She tried to pull away, perhaps to occupy her hands as he noticed she often did when nervous. He knew he shouldn’t, but instead of letting her go he held on, pulling her back towards him. “Well played, Lady Stark,” he said, giving her his own grin.

She returned it.

 

*

 

Sansa was brushing her hair of the knots that accumulated in it throughout the day before she had to make her way down to the Great Hall for supper. The same hand that Jon had held to him now gripped the ivory handle of a brush, and if she closed her eyes, the feel of her curls brushing the back of her hand could almost be mistaken for the barely there rub of his thumb. She opened her eyes to rid herself of such silly thoughts.

They had sat with each other for hours following, discussing the topics of the previous meeting. He had surprised her when he had called for their lunch, making sure to ask that they bring something sweet if it could be spared. When she found an apple tartelette on her plate, she had been delighted. Ever since Winterfell had been forced to house one of the biggest armies the realm had ever seen, during winter no less, Sansa had found herself eating no more than what she needed for sustenance. During winter, food was for warmth, not taste. It had been so long since she had allowed herself to have a desert. 

She split it in two, proffering the other half to him, but he shook his head, saying he had gotten it for her. She had insisted, and after a bit of back and forth, he split the half she gave him into another half and placed the rest back on her plate. She had been annoyed, yes, but the sweet smell of the tartelette had overpowered her annoyance.

The cinnamon melted on her tongue in a way Sansa could only describe as decadent, but the way Jon had looked upon her as she ate had been just as sweet.

Sansa shook her head; Jon had always looked at her so. As their time together had increased before he was summoned south, Sansa had started to think, maybe even hope, that those looks were more than brotherly, but then he had come home with a dragon queen by his side, burning such stupid thoughts to ash.

Jon was her cousin, and he was too honorable to ever look at his broken former sister in any way that might be construed as suggestive. Nor did she even want him to. It was sharing his attention that had angered her, after having it to herself. It had been so long since she had had something that was only hers.

A knock came at the door. One of her guards appeared in her chambers after Sansa’s okay.

“Lady Karstark here to see you, my Queen.”

Sansa rose from her seat in front of her mirror. One of her ladies usually escorted her to dinner, but when Alys entered, hands clasped before her with her head down, Sansa figured they might be late that evening.

“Your Grace,” Alys said, dropping into a curtsy that lasted a tad longer than usual. 

“Is everything alright?”

She took several deep breaths, squaring her shoulders and stood up straighter. Her gaze met Sansa’s. She was one of the only women who did not need to look up at her when speaking which she seemed to take strength from now. The only residue of the nervousness that she had worn upon entering was the way her palm brushed rhythmically at her skirts.

“I have come to ask Your Grace for her blessing.”

Sansa took a breath which she held in for a beat so the other girl would not sense her surprise. She was brought back to the day at the market. How the other girls had giggled about boys; a not at all uncommon topic of conversation. But there had also been Alys’ less than common question about love.

How Jon had been brought up soon afterward.

She remembered the way Jon had looked upon Alys as they had entered the privy council chamber, the way he continued to steal glances all throughout the meeting.

The breath Sansa had been holding left her just as any breath would, betraying nothing, but her eyes flickered shut along with the exhale, staying closed longer than a blink should last. When they reopened, it was to a determined Lady Karstark. The candlelight brightened the red of her hair; her jaw tightened as though anticipating a reprimand, ready to fight tooth and nail for her desires. Sansa did not see any of Daenerys in her; she was lacking the sense of entitlement Sansa always detected in the other woman. She wondered if this is what Ygritte had looked like. Alys Karstark was a warrior in her own right, kissed by fire.

“Acquiring the blessings of a king or queen is a southern tradition,” If every minor northern lord or lady had needed the blessings of their King, bastards would fill the North to the brim, “You know you need not ask.”

The rigidity of Alys’ shoulders deflated slightly as she let out a small laugh, “I would prefer it nonetheless.”

Sansa knew the answer to her next question without having to ask. Why else would Alys need her approval if not to wed someone close to her? “And who is the other half of the couple I am giving my blessing to?”

“Lord Eddard Flint.”

“What?” This time Sansa couldn’t hold in her surprise, the word falling out of her in a breathy heap. 

“I understand that he is the Master of reconstruction, and as such, duty requires him to stay in Winterfell. I also understand that since the Karstarks outrank the Flints, we would be expected to reside at Karhold, but I believe that Edd’s position on your council and my position as your Lady gives us ample reason to stay in Winterfell.” Alys rushed to say before Sansa had the time to make any arguments against the match that the other girl thought she had. All Sansa could think was,  _ it’s not Jon _ .

She grinned, grabbing Alys’ hands. Happiness coursed through her veins for her Lady. War and hardships had molded them both in ways that would never allow them to develop the same relationship she had shared with Jeyne Poole, but if Sansa could call any woman today her friend, it was the one before her now.

She wanted to give her blessing immediately so the two could live their happy ending as soon as possible. Edd Flint might not be the most handsome of grooms, but he was strong like the knights in the stories. But Sansa knew strength wasn’t a quality strictly reserved for knights.

Her thumb rubbed over Alys’ knuckles, “Will he be kind to you?”

“Yes,” Alys’ eyes shone with something Sansa could not put a name to, her broad smile shrinking to something more sweet, “Yes, he is the gentlest man I have ever met.”

Sansa’s heart ached at her proclamation, a mix of good and bad pain, for what was, and what never would be. Dropping her hands she moved across the room towards the wine. “Well, I believe we have cause for celebration.”

 

*

 

“Arya,” Sansa said between a hiccup of laughter, “she told me that Robb had made a point of knocking him to the dirt during training.”

They were seated on the floor, by the fire. Alys had insisted that they sit upon the ground, said the backs of her desk chairs were too rigid and made her feel as though she should be speaking of the importation of pepper plants from Dorne, or something equally as boring. Sansa had to bite her tongue so as not to say that pepper wasn’t grown in Dorne. Anyhow, she found that she quite liked the contrast between the cool of the stones under her palms and the warmth of the flames that whispered at her feet. She bet they had made quite a site for Jon when he had come to check up on her when they had not shown for dinner.   

“My cousin, Hardin, once did the same except the man I fancied happened to be the Master at Arms.”

“Oh no!”

She hummed her agreement around a sip of her water. They had changed from wine to water early on in the evening when Sansa started to feel the effects of the alcohol, not wanting to be indisposed the next morning. She was surprised to find that the conversation flowed just as smoothly despite the change in drink.

“Of course, he did not know that I liked him–I was nine and he was nine-and-twenty–, so he had no idea why this greenboy kept on challenging him to duel with real steel! I was livid when I found out.”

“What did you do?”

“I can’t quite remember, probably yelled.”

After yet another fit of giggles, they lapsed into companionable silence, Alys getting up to refill her goblet while Sansa stared into the fire. The flames licked away at a branch until it collapsed upon the biggest log in the hearth. The collision splintered the branch into multiple little pieces that were quickly digested and made into ash.

As the other girl sat down, adjusting carefully to find the most comfortable position while holding her glass, Sansa said: “I don’t think your cousin would have any cause to challenge Edd to a duel.” Her words sounded jestful, but her tone and meaning were serious, and she made sure to meet the other girl’s gaze.

“Thank you, Sansa. Back then it seemed like my family would never agree on who I should marry, but I hope, if father and my uncles and cousins were here, that that would no longer be the case.”

Sansa was shocked by the use of her first name. She could not recall the last person, besides Jon, who had called her by anything but her title. It had probably been Arya during their farewell in King’s Landing. 

“I know what you mean. My family always disapproved of who I fancied.” Jon joking that Joffrey looked like a girl. Robb always sneering when Joffrey entered the room. Father’s talk of finding her someone honorable, gentle, strong, not Joffrey. “They were not wrong, though.”

Even Arya, two years her junior, had been able to see how awful Sansa’s prince had been. She had stood up for what she knew was right, humiliating Joffrey though she knew the ramifications, while Sansa had still been the naive little girl defending the prince who was supposed to give her her dreams even though she had just witnessed him being the monster of her story. 

Sansa jerked back upon feeling the hand on her leg, but when she looked up it was not into the cold green eyes of one of her past demons, but the warm brown ones of a girl she hoped to someday call a friend.

“It is impossible to expect children not to dream. Others are simply more likely to let a boy dream of becoming the next best swordsman than a girl long for true love because they think one is impossible.”

Sansa hesitated, thinking upon Alys’ words before she made to place her hand over where Alys’ rested.

 

*

 

Sansa sat before a host of people she did not know.

The room was large, though not as large as the Great Hall where she usually received grievances. More brightly lit due to the lack of large windows which adorned the left side of the Great Hall. The people before her were dressed in silks, long dresses, and tight trousers, the clothing of summer. None seemed bothered by their lack of appropriate winter attire and the sun streaming through the open doorway was brighter than she had seen since returning back north, but Sansa felt the wind at her back, chilling her to her very bones. 

Everyone was gathered close around the three figures who stood crouched around each other in the center of the room. A man and two little girls. The man, presumably the father, had an arm around each girl, comforting them. His girls were swathed in shadows within the dimly lit room, but the man was perfectly visible.

“Father,” Sansa’s voice cracked around the word, unbelieving. “Father.” She kept on repeating herself, crying out for him with more and more urgency, but she did not get up from her seat for she knew deep down it was not him.

He did not seem to hear her, but when her calls turned to whispers on her tongue and her eyes stung with tears, he finally turned towards her.

“I’m afraid, Your Grace, that I made a mistake agreeing to come south.” He was just how she remembered him: dark hair tied tightly in a bun, worry lines on his forehead, brown eyes that could become sharp as dragonglass, but never when addressing his children. Except now. “You heard my daughter’s testimony, how your son attacked that butcher’s boy, and yet you’re too cowardly to do anything about it.” 

He extended one of his hands to the daughter to his left. Sansa expected it to be Arya but when the girl stepped into the light she saw only her younger self, “Thank you, Sansa, for telling the truth.” His voice took on a different tone when speaking to her thirteen-year-old self. He adopted the gentle lilt she was accustomed to, not the one tinged with disgust she was used to him using with the likes of the Lannisters, that he used now with her. 

“Are we going home?” She heard the stranger that was herself ask.

“Yes, sweetling,” he replied before turning back to face the dais, “You are no ruler at all, just a child playing pretend.”

And like that, he left the chamber, walking his daughters into the outside light, and still, Sansa could not raise herself from her place in the cold. 

 

Tears did not wet her cheeks as she woke. She was not curled up into a ball as she usually was after a nightmare. But a numbness had settled over her body. It was not a new feeling, she had first felt it after her father’s death, and it had become a daily occurrence when she was sold to Ramsay. It was her only barrier against the pure hot pain of grief she knew waited on the other side. Her only friend in a house of old ghosts. She had left that friend behind when she found Brienne and Pod, when Jon returned to her, and Bran and Arya.

Now she laid there with the numbness pressing into every inch of her. It climbed into her airways, suffocating her with its presence. It weighed down her limbs and whispered into her ear that if she moved she would break the thin layer or protection, letting in fear, pain, and grief. So she did not move.

That was where they found her. Meera had knocked on the door twice before entering, perhaps believing she would still be asleep. Upon locking eyes, seeing her in bed but awake, not reacting to the entrance, realization dawned on her guard’s face; she was not known to stay long in bed upon waking, there was always too much to do. Meera tried to usher the other with her out as fast as possible, Tisa whispering her confusion but not resisting the motions to exit.

Sansa knew she should be ashamed that anyone saw her like this.  _ Weak _ , the voices in her mind whispered, but she ignored them all, turning onto her side to stare out the window. 

 

*

 

Jon was not expecting to be stopped from entering Sansa’s chambers. 

He had been confused when she did not show for supper the previous night, but when he had found her on the floor with Alys, the happiness that seized his chest had left him breathless. When she did not show to break her fast he assumed she was breaking it with her ladies in her rooms, but the look of Sansa’s female guard spoke of a protectiveness that did not meld with women enjoying breakfast on the other side of the door.

“Did she explicitly give orders not to let me in?” 

He expected her to glower like any other guard would do over having their authority challenged. Instead, the woman looked him up and down. A warrior assessing the best way to defeat an opponent on the battlefield. Her expression changed, though, upon reaching his face, as though she knew him in some capacity. The set of her jaw loosened just as she stepped aside, letting him enter.

Just as he had previously assumed, Sansa’s ladies were present, but instead of breaking their fast they were huddled around a cyvasse board. Sansa was nowhere to be seen. Jon paused after closing the door and they paused in their game, turning to him with judging looks.

“You shouldn’t be here,” the girl with jet black hair who appeared to be winning the game, remarked.  

Alys stood, moving towards him like Septa Mordane used to when he and Robb would enter the sewing room, one arm outstretched to shew him away. “Our Queen is not feeling well today, you see. A particularly nasty moonblood.”

Four women and the talk of moonblood would have sent him flying if he was still the boy from before Winterfell’s burning, but now he keeps his feet locked into place.

“I have seen plenty of blood in my lifetime, a little more will not kill me.”

Alys hesitated, “Pardon me, my Lord, but perhaps she does not want you to see her in such a state.”

Jon looked around the room, at the other women with their heads downturned. “Perhaps, but that does not mean it is best for her to be alone.”

He heard a sigh to his right, and he knew he was about to be forcefully asked to leave by a fed up Karstark when the smallest amongst the other women spoke up.

“I think it would do her good to see him.” Tisa, Jon thinks her name is. As the others all turned towards her she sat up straighter in her chair, eyes meeting them all individually as though challenging them to argue with her.

 

*

 

He entered the room to find her curled abed, face turned towards the window. Her hair was fanned out on her pillow, giving her a crown even when she was not wearing one. He thought, perhaps, she was asleep, but the way her breathing picked up as he entered the room made him pause in his tracks, halfway between the door and her. No, it was not her moonblood that disturbed her so. He was just debating over whether or not to exit her chambers, tail between his legs, when she turned to him.

Her gaze was ice when she looked to face him, a queen who did not want to be disturbed, but upon seeing him, truly, the ice melted, leaving behind a pool of tears in her eyes and a tired girl.

That brought him to sit on the other edge of her bed. His movement caused her to look past him, towards the wall at something he could not see.

He waited like that. Waited for her to say something, but understanding when she did not. He understood the need for silence, the need to be alone for but a single day, the weariness their paths had led them down. He understood it all, and that’s why he did not leave her be; even if she most probably wished him to.

Instead of speaking, she inched her way towards him. Subconsciously, he laid down to rest beside her. She slung one of her arms over his torso, across his chest, into his hair. Placing herself into the crook of his arm, she used his chest as a pillow.

With purpose, he stroked her hair and waited for the tears to soak through his tunic. They never came. She kept them in, locked away even in just his presence, and his heart ached for how strong she had become. A fortress that kept in just as much as it kept out, despite the bursting of the windows. 

He held her like that, minutes running with the hours. The day had been dark, the light coming in from the window being of no help when he tried to discern the time. Just as the grey of the sky was shifting to black, he felt a tug at his chest, pulling him towards the Godswood. When she nodded after he had whispered that they should venture there, he wondered if she could feel it too. 

The snow was falling outside, but under the thick canopy, very few flakes made it to their heads. Sansa led him through the wood, his hand in hers, though he had been the one to propose the excursion. There was a certainty in her step, a purpose, and when they got to the hot pools she paused, listening. 

The wind howled, but there, if you knew to listen, mingled another sort of howl, deep and prolonged and invigorating. It set his veins pumping while simultaneously putting him at ease.

Sansa turned to him, wind whipping her hair into her face, and smiled.

Ghost.


End file.
